mad world
by ghetto.romano
Summary: Whatever had driven Arthur to murder had driven him unstable. Unsatisfied with his own pitiful existence, he takes desperate measures to end it. Mentioned USUK. I'm not good at summaries, shoot me. Might make a second chapter? R&R and I'll decide.


_All around me are familiar faces_

_Worn out places_

_Worn out faces  
_

Cold, pallid fingers stained crimson clutched at the door to the medicine cabinet. Time was running out.

He grabbed the painkillers he had searched for and slammed the cabinet shut with a _thud._ He would end this slowly. Painfully.

_Bright and early for the daily races_

_Going nowhere_

_Going nowhere  
_

Arthur hesitated.

Did he have the courage to end his own life? Or was he too much of a coward?

He gripped the bottle of amphetamine tightly and collapsed onto the floor, leaving a sickening red trail of someone else's blood on the wall as he slid.

_Their tears are filling up their glasses_

_No expression_

_No expression  
_

He held his scarlet hands out in front of his eyes. These were the hands of a killer.

And then he yelled out a deafening cry of pain, of remorse, of guilt, that echoed throughout his home. What – _how _– had he killed a man? A man who was the source of his insanity and also the receiver of his love.

His best friend. His _lover. _Alfred Jones was dead by Arthur Kirkland's own hands.

_Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow_

_No tomorrow_

_No tomorrow  
_

And how could he blame anyone but himself for his selfish act, for the sin he had committed?

And that was it. He couldn't.

It was Arthur's gun, a vintage rifle fit with a bayonet, most likely from the Revolutionary War. It was Arthur's bullet, loaded into Arthur's gun, that pierced the air, pierced Alfred Jones's gut or his chest or it might have been his thigh, but Arthur didn't know, Arthur didn't _care_ so long as he got the hell out of there.

Arthur hoisted himself up off the rug with what little energy he had left. He reached behind the sink and pulled out a bottle of beer, gin, scotch, whatever it was back there. Hell, it could be vodka for all he cared.

_And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad_

_The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had  
_

And he got drunk.

Arthur Kirkland was not a happy drunk, but the alcohol made him forget his situation a bit, enough that it eased his pain.

But it brought him to his knees again, bottle of whatever the hell it was in hand, thinking of _the past_ and _the good old days_.

The days when Alfred was energized, eager, animated, thrilled even, just to see this old bastard's face again.

Sometimes it seemed as if their fabricated lie was true love, but after a while it would haunt them both again. The things they did always came back to them in the end. And maybe that's what drove Arthur to murder. To finish what he started.

And Arthur's deeds were not those to replicate. Butsome memories led him back to a time when he could feel joy throughout his whole body, from his head to his toes, and when he was truly human. When he _felt._ But since his days in power, every smile that graced his lips, every tear that rolled down his cheek, none of these touched his eyes. He was hollow now, and every sip of this drink made him more empty.

_I find it hard to tell you_

_I find it hard to take_

_When people run in circles, it's a very, very…  
_

Then Arthur groggily stood and swayed on the spot before walking over to a bookshelf in his drawing room. He picked up a book, at least one hundred years old, and ripped out a blank page. After selecting the oldest of his feather quills he scrawled some sort of nearly illegible goodbye letter. A goodbye to everyone who knew him.

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_ I will probably be dead by the time you read this._

_I was destined to die once I pulled the trigger on America._

_Yeah. It was me._

_I killed America. I killed Alfred fucking Jones._

_And I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

_ Arthur  
_

And then came the question of _how_ to kill himself, be it through painkillers, a bullet, or a rope, Arthur only wanted to give himself the most pain possible. To redeem himself for his sins, to redeem himself to a god that probably didn't exist. To redeem himself to Alfred, who was only trying to help, only trying to erase the tension, the negativity in the air.

But it was too late now.

It was going to end here.

Arthur opened the childproof cap on the painkillers and popped one, two, five, seven, ten, more even, into his sweaty palm then into his mouth. He washed down each pill with a swig of alcohol.

Before he let Death overtake him as he planned, he loped to the washroom to replace the bottle that would kill him soon. He stood over the sink and gazed at his own reflection. His unkempt, greasy blond hair hung over an ashen face. Blood, bruises, wounds everywhere. His dull green eyes had dark purple rings underneath, and were red and puffy. Arthur splashed his face with water, at least trying to remove the general air of unkemptness from himself.

_Mad world_

_Mad world.  
_

Arthur felt his knees weaken and he fell face-forward onto the rug. He felt a haze enter his mind, whether from the alcohol, the painkillers, or the combination of the two.

A wry smile played upon his chapped lips and he knew that the blackening edges of his vision meant he was nearly finished.

And soon the black overcame the entirety of his sight and soon his long, pale fingers unclasped and his arms fell limp and soon but he didn't know how soon but it was soon he knew but it could have been hours or days or years but finally he knew he was done and through and expired and it rather hurt really and finally with the last of his energy he laughed. A high, cynical thing, like he was happy to be free of the guilt and remorse of having killed a man. Having killed his friend. Having killed his lover.

And a new wave of pain passed over hi_m_ _a_n_d_ he _w_as _o_ve_r_ he wanted it to end p_l_ease please stop is this what it feels like to _d_ie am i going to die i think so. i think i am dead.

And he was falling.

And when at last he hit rock bottom it stopped. Everything stopped.

Death had overcome yet another soul.


End file.
